Sweet Sorrow(49)
Later in rehearsals there’d be proper fight training with realistic-looking swords, but for now we swaggered towards the outdoor buffet like the lusty young Italian noblemen that we’d become, and chose from an array of vegetarian dishes courtesy of Polly and her mysterious staff: loamy wholemeal pasta-bakes surfaced with greasy cheese, chickpeas like a pile of goat droppings, salads of gritty grains and mulched beans, warmed and fermented by the sun. At a separate table, George stood hunched over a loaf of dense, mahogany-coloured home-made bread, sawing away as if it was the joist of a barn. It was very generous of Polly, but this was a kitchen where flavour played second fiddle to the necessity of a healthy, regular bowel, and the communal flatulence gave an edge to all our warm-downs.
‘It’s certainly a lot of roughage,’ said George, sawing away.
‘I swear,’ said Alex, grouting the grooves of a celery stick with hummus, ‘one day we’re going to roll forward one vertebra at a time and all simultaneously shit ourselves.’
I found a banana as green as a lime and a scrawny bunch of grapes, and there was Fran beside me, script in hand.
‘So what have you named it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your sword, what’s it called?’
‘Stick,’ I said. ‘I’m going to call it Stick.’
‘Good choice.’
‘I didn’t choose Stick, Stick chose me.’
‘So how do you and Stick feel about finding somewhere private?’ With one hand on the hilt and the other holding the bowl of grapes, I followed Fran down to the meadow.
Pygmalion
We settled in the shade of a low-boughed tree, near the spot where she’d first seen me. At that time, I’d been reading with a cigarette in my hand and no top on, and perhaps she’d thought I was an intellectual. If so, it wouldn’t take long to reveal the truth.
‘I think we should just read it through, line by line, just to see how it sounds. Is that all right?’ Though we strained for informality, there was something unavoidably teacherly in her manner. I’d not expected to be a student again, and I felt the old anxieties. ‘When you’re ready.’ She put her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. ‘I’m listening.’
I licked my lips and ran at it. ‘Here were the servants of your adversary close fighting ere I did approach—’
‘Don’t ignore the comma. Punctuation is your friend. Not your only friend, but it will help. And what does ere mean?’
‘“When”? When I approached—’
‘Or “before”.’
‘So “when” is wrong?’
‘Both work, but “before” is better than “when”.’
‘Before I approached—’
‘As in “even before”. So he’s saying it because …?’
‘It’s an excuse? He doesn’t want the blame?’
‘And what are they doing?’
‘Fighting.’
‘No.’
‘Close fighting.’
‘So it’s …’
‘Close combat.’
‘So it’s …’
‘Stabby?’
‘Really stabby. So …’
‘Here were your enemies, stabbing each other before I’d even got here.’
‘Not just enemies.’
‘Servants of your enemies.’
‘So he’s a …’
‘Snob?’
‘Maybe. Maybe he’s—’
‘Posh. Posher than them.’
‘Now say it again, bit more acting.’
‘Here were the servants of your—’
‘But not with a funny voice. Just talk normally.’
‘Aren’t I meant to, what’s it called … project?’
‘Yes, but I’m right here,’ she said, and without opening her eyes, she reached above her head and, for a moment, laid her arm across my leg. ‘Just tell me what happened.’
‘Here were the servants of your adversary, close fighting ere I did approach.’
‘Getting there. Again.’
‘Here were the – you do know there’s pages of this stuff?’
‘It’ll get easier.’
‘You say it.’
‘No!’
‘Just say it and I’ll copy you.’
‘I can’t do your part for you.’
‘No, but you do it and I’ll copy you but it will be me. Say it!’
‘No!’
I nudged her with my foot. ‘Go on! Say it.’
‘Just this once,’ she sighed. ‘Here were the servants of your adversary, close fighting ere I did approach.’
I copied her, the intonation and emphasis.
‘Okay. Let’s go on, shall we?’
And so we did, tiptoeing through it until along came Fiery Tybalt, who ‘cut the winds who nothing hurt withal hissed him in scorn. O-kay.’
‘It’s fine, take it bit by bit.’
‘What’s withal?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but don’t worry.’